


let's talk about spaceships

by redweathertiger



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Pseudo-Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redweathertiger/pseuds/redweathertiger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Or, the one where Scott and Stiles are stepbrothers.) At the wedding reception in the Stilinskis’s backyard, they filch a bottle of champagne and go up to Stiles’ room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's talk about spaceships

Maybe in some other universe (the kind of parallel universe that is brought up in whatever terrible sci-fi show they’ve decided to start marathoning late at night, that the main characters _always_ seem to be getting stuck in), they find each other some other way. They find each other first, thinks Scott.

 

In this one, it’s Melissa and John who fall first, and things get strange from there.

 

+++

 

Scott gets home from his very first lacrosse practice freshman year to find his mother all made-up and flustered. She’s rooting through her drawers to find an apparently important something or another. She’s talking to herself, which she only does when she’s nervous.

 

He leans on the doorframe and watches. She turns around and yelps when she sees him, hand flying to her collar in alarm.

 

“Jumpy?” asks Scott, amused.

 

She’s shaking her head, at herself and at him. “For your information, your mother has a date.”

 

+++

  
When Melissa answers the door, _Sheriff Stilinski_ is standing on their stoop. Scott is lurking in the hallway, positioned so he can see the entryway. Scott does a double-take because he’s never seen the sheriff not in his uniform.

 

The sheriff kisses his mother’s cheek, and they are about to leave when he spies Scott. He nods at him, and then his mother’s turning around and introducing them and Scott has no choice but to say hello.

 

“John Stilinski,” Sheriff Stilinski says, shaking his hand very firmly. For some reason this strikes Scott as impossibly funny, because he’d sort of just thought of him as Sheriff Stilinski, no first name. Of course he has a first name. His face screws up because he’s trying not to laugh and his mother gives him A Look.

 

“Have a nice time!” Scott says quickly, ushering them out.

 

+++

 

The sheriff’s kid comes up to him when he’s rooting through his locker the next day.

  
“ _Dude_. I think our parents went on a date.”

 

Scott looks up. Just-call-me-Stiles Stilinski has never spoken to him outside of practice. Maybe once or twice in class, but it’s still a new thing. “Yeah. And they’re going on another this weekend.”

 

Stiles slumps against the locker next to Scott’s. “Weird.”

 

Scott doesn't really know what to say to that.  

 

+++

 

One date turns into two and then three and then it’s a thing: their parents are _dating_. After a month, they decide to have a joint family dinner. It’s a strange event. Everybody is smiling too much, for different reasons. Melissa and John are doing it helplessly, at each other when they think their kids aren’t looking. Scott’s doing it out of nerves. And Stiles, Scott thinks later, is doing it to keep himself from saying something inappropriate.

 

Scott invites Stiles up to play video games in his room. He’s learning that Stiles babbles when he’s nervous, which is alright with Scott. Pretty soon Stiles’ running commentary of agitated curses at the screen makes Scott laugh so much that he snorts orange soda out of his nose. Which burns and makes him laugh _more_ as he wipes at his face with his sleeve.

 

Things get easier after that. He sort of forgets that Stiles isn’t his friend. They’re given up on the Playstation and are halfway into _The Mummy_ , sitting side-by-side, each finding that the other reacts just right to all the good bits of the movie when John calls Stiles down to leave.

 

Stiles gets up. “Well. See you around.” Then he _salutes_ , and then immediately looks like he regrets that particular decision.

  
Scott starts feeling like maybe this won’t be so bad.

 

+++

 

The thing is: he likes Scott. Stiles really does. He’s a nice guy, a _good_ guy. Funny. Before all this, he was just a likeable kid from a few rows over in History— not a friend, but a familiar face. He has a crooked, comforting smile and more courtesy than Stiles has learned to expect from his classmates. And now they are kind-of, sort-of friends. He thinks that maybe if things were different they might be really good friends.

 

He likes Melissa too.  He remembers her from too much time spent in hospital waiting rooms. She was always genuinely _kind_. She never hovered, like some of the other adults that loomed over him in the strange, terrible eight months that his mother was in and out of the hospital. She never made him self-conscious, never made him feel pitied when she'd check in on him.

 

He just didn’t sign up for a whole new family, okay?

 

+++

 

Dates turn into weekends away and weeks turn into months. They’ve been together for a little less than a year when they’re all at dinner together, out for Italian food. Stiles’ mouth is full of spaghetti when John puts his hand on top of Melissa’s and says, “We have an announcement.”  
  
“We’re getting married,” finishes Melissa.

 

Scott chokes on his breadstick, and John has to wallop him on the back until he can sit up, eyes watering, to tell them _congratulations._

 

+++

 

They’re moving into the McCall’s house.

 

Stiles knows, on some level, that this is better than their old house for a new marriage. Melissa and Scott shouldn’t have to live in a house with the memories of somebody’s dead mother.

 

He resents it anyway.

 

+++

 

Scott clears out half of his room, alone. Stiles is supposed to come over tomorrow to help, but Scott can’t sleep, can’t even stay still. So he goes at it in the middle of the night while Melissa is working a graveyard shift.

 

He pushes all his stuff to one side before deciding that’s entirely wrong. Then he moves it all to the other side, huffing with the effort. He has to take a puff of his inhaler and sit down in the middle of the whole mess.

 

He just wants it all to turn out all right. That’s what Scott does— hopes for the best, but worries about what is going to go wrong next.

 

+++

 

McCall-Stilinski is a name that should never be inflicted on anybody ever, so they keep their respective names while they consolidate their households, right before sophomore year starts.

 

It’s a small ceremony at city hall, on a late August afternoon. Stiles hands his father the ring and he smiles, big and goofy, when anybody looks at him. It shrinks when he thinks nobody’s watching.

  
Except that Scott’s looking. He doesn’t say anything, though.

 

At the reception in the Stilinski’s backyard, they filch a bottle of champagne and go up to Stiles’ room. It’s mostly in boxes at this point. They drink out of the bottle, passing it back and forth between them until it’s gone. It makes everything feel easier, and they laugh until the bubbles burn their nose.

 

Stiles has taken off his tie and un-tucked his button-up. He’s drunk, and he looks hilariously wrecked. Scott is sitting against the wall, cross-legged and watching him.

 

Stiles sprawls on the floor, misjudges the space and ends up half on Scott’s lap. This doesn’t seem to rattle him-- he just keeps talking.

 

Scott’s not really listening. He’s watching Stiles’ mouth, red and open. Even if Stiles isn’t talking, and Stiles is _usually_ talking, it’s always open. He’s a mouth-breather. And he’s always sticking things in his mouth that he shouldn’t. He chews on pen-ends and the collars of his shirts, mouths on his headphone wire. Bites and licks his lips compulsively. It’s distracting.

  
Scott briefly considers tracing the curve of it with his fingertip. Thinks about maybe pushing his fingers inside Stiles’ mouth, seeing what he’d do then.

 

And—

 

Oh. Scott’s drunk too.

 

“How you doin’, buddy.” Stiles asks, reaching up to tug at Scott’s tie for emphasis. His arm falls back down but he doesn’t actually let go, the weight of it making Scott lean over him, the downward motion making Scott’s head spin.

 

“A-okay,” says Scott, much too close to Stiles now, feeling warm, champagne-sweet breathe skip across his skin.

 

Stiles flashes him a thumbs-up and lets Scott’s tie loose. He rolls onto his side, forehead jammed up against Scott’s hipbone, and promptly falls asleep.

 

Scott should get up, put some distance between Stiles and his dick. Instead, Scott sits up straight and bangs the back of his head against the wall a couple of times, wishing for a lot of things to be different.

 

+++

 

There are promises of house-hunting in the spring, when their finances are sorted out.

 

But for now they have beds in different corners of the same room. They’ve both had sixteen years of being only children, and now they have to share close, personal space. Whoever thought that this was going to be a good idea?’

 

The first night, Stiles briefly considers changing in the bathroom, and then decides that’s dumb. They’re both on the lacrosse team and share a locker room. It’s his room too, now.

 

They both toss and turn all night long. They wake up bad-tempered and tired, though Scott’s so stupidly good-natured that he’s bounced back by their ride to school, making small talk. Stiles’ rotten mood follows him through the day.

 

+++

 

Stiles feels like a houseguest on good days. He feels like an intruder on bad ones. There’s no real privacy, and Scott’s _always there_. Stiles drives Scott to school. Then they both have lacrosse practice after school. And then Stiles drives Scott home from school. And he’s always watching Stiles. He even _stands_ too close to Stiles. 

 

And the more of an asshole Stiles is about it, the more concerned Scott looks. Scott starts making an obvious, conscientious effort to give Stiles space and for some reason that pisses Stiles off even more.

 

He starts taking long showers, the only place to find some privacy. Jacks off in there instead of bed. Feels irritation crawling beneath his skin like a living thing.

 

+++

 

Three weeks into this, Stiles snaps.

 

They’re back from lacrosse. John and Melissa are both at work. Stiles is sorting through his stuff, which is still not where he needs it to be. Which is his own damn fault.

 

He can feel Scott’s eyes on him. He ignores it.

 

“Hey,” says Scott, carefully.

 

Stiles doesn’t respond— he isn’t in the mood, alright?

 

But Scott seems oblivious to that fact.

 

“It’s just, you’ve been quiet lately.”

 

Stiles shrugs. “Whatever.”

 

They’re both silent for a moment or so, the only sounds coming from Stiles’ rummaging.

 

Finally, Scott asks, “…is it something I did?”

 

“Nothing. You didn’t do _anything_ ,” Stiles snaps and he knows he’s being an asshole. He moves to get something from his bedside table, and his shin catches on the stupid, exposed corner of the metal bed frame, where the mattress doesn’t quite match up. It’s an accident that has happened before, in the still-unfamiliar room. Stiles cries out, pain shooting up his leg. “Mother _fucker_.”

 

He’s grabbing at his shin, which is _bleeding_ and fucking _fuck._ And then Scott’s next to him, asking if he’s okay and his first reaction is to shove at Scott. “ _Don’t touch me._ ”

 

It’s harder than he meant, sending Scott stumbling backwards, but all the more satisfying for it.

 

So he shoves him again.

 

Scott’s eyes go wide and Stiles can see the entire progression of what comes next on Scott’s face—he’s the easiest person to read, can’t hide anything— shock, then anger, and then the realization that yeah, they are actually having a fight and yeah, Scott is angry too.

 

Scott shoves him right back and Stiles clatters against the dresser behind him. Something falls off and breaks against the floor. Stiles’ body is humming with anger; he’s furious and didn’t realize it until now. He fists two hands in the front of Scott’s shirt to drag him foreword and then _throw_ him backward. But they both lose their balance, with Scott careening backward and taking Stiles with him. They hit the hardwood floor hard enough for Stiles to feel his bones rattle. And that’s it, that’s _absolutely it._

 

It’s not a tussle, it’s an honest-to-god wrestling match and they’re both fighting mean and dirty— knees and elbows jabbed into the softest places they can find, scratching and biting. Rolling over and over. Stiles even yanks Scott’s hair so hard that he can see Scott’s eyes tearing up. _Fuck_ him. Stiles just wants to _hurt_ Scott. His brain has completely shorted out, and he’s out for blood.

 

Eventually he has Scott pinned, Scott breathing raggedly, with that worrisome rattle, and maybe Stiles should not feel this good about beating somebody who might go and have an asthma attack but he does anyway.

 

There’s a lull, with both of them trying to catch their breath.

 

Stiles is hard, but Scott is hard too. They both know it.

 

This is _so very_ fucking bad.

 

But Scott’s eyes are wide like he doesn’t know what to do, and that is exactly what makes Stiles feel like he’s winning this.

 

He looks down at Scott defiantly, and doesn’t get up. Doesn’t let Scott up, doesn’t give him an out. Doesn’t give himself an out, though he could.

 

He’s always had an impressive self-destructive streak.

 

Instead grinds himself against Scott once, like this is a dare.

 

Scott makes a choked-off noise, and shuts his eyes tight.

 

Stiles splays a hand on Scott’s chest, feeling the muscles underneath his palm tighten. Scott goes so, so still, barely even breathing. He has the strong suspicion that Scott is going to let him do whatever he is about to do. He isn’t going to put up a fight.

 

Jesus, what _is_ Stiles doing?

 

They are both short on air. Stiles sits back on shaky heels, which gives Scott enough moving room to push himself up to sitting. Stiles doesn’t stop him.

 

He’s looking at Stiles in a way that makes Stiles feel pinned. Then Stiles is letting himself get pushed back until his shoulders meet the bed frame behind him, and he’s sitting and Scott is crawling up to kneel over him. 

 

Stiles is shaking. Scott puts his hands on his knees, and the sensation goes straight to his dick. It’s too much—his head feels too light, his whole body is humming.

 

And Scott? Scott is looking at him like he’s going to go in for a _kiss_. Stiles wants to laugh because this is horrifying, but instead he ducks his head, lightning fast, and bites Scott’s shoulder.

 

Scott inhales, sharp. His hands are moving up to Stiles’ hips. “Stiles?”

 

Stiles just nods, glad that Scott can't see his face.

 

+++

 

It’s like a game, but not. A dare gone too far, maybe. Scott’s heart is pounding and Stiles’ mouth is open and he’s breathing like he’s just run a suicide. Scott’s mouth is dry, when did it get so dry?

 

Scott’s forehead is pressed to Stiles’ shoulder and Stiles is whimpering, one hand on the back of Scott’s neck, bucking his hips up into Scott’s grip. It’s nothing like a rhythm, just desperate thrusts. Scott rubs his thumb over the head of Stiles’ dick and he can feel all of Stiles' muscles jump. God. It feels like Scott is never going to catch his breath ever again and he doesn’t even care.

 

“Boys?”

 

It’s John’s voice: he’s home, they hadn’t hear the garage door open, hadn’t heard him come in.

 

Their door isn’t closed.

 

Panicked, Scott throws his head up—

 

…and it connects with Stiles’ nose with a sickening crunch.

 

Stiles makes a horrible, strangled kind of noise. Scott’s hand is _still down Stiles’ pants_ , and he yanks it out to catch Stiles’ face in both his hands, a little too roughly. A instinctive gesture of concern and also a plea for silence.

 

Scott takes in the sight of him: there is blood trickling down from Stiles’ upturned nose, his eyes watering from the pain.

 

“ _Boys_?” again, closer. Then come the sounds of somebody coming down the hall.

 

Stiles’ horror is a mirror of Scott’s: _their door isn’t closed._

Both of them are struck silent, Scott can’t make his throat work, but Stiles gapes.

 

They can hear him coming closer and closer and—

 

“Be out in a sec!” Stiles calls out. It’s pitched too high, cracking comically in the middle like it hasn’t since about the seventh grade, but something about its urgency makes the footfalls stop short.

 

“ _Al_ right,” says John, sounding dubious. But after a horrible half second they hear him walking away.

 

Neither of them move or breathe until the familiar kitchen noises start up.

 

Stiles pushes Scott away, standing up and zipping up his pants with shaking hands. He looks as wrecked as Scott feels. He’s not looking at Scott.

 

Stiles goes to the bathroom to clean up.

 

Scott feels sick.

 

+++

 

When they make it out to the kitchen, Stiles’ nose is starting to bruise already. He’s got a twist of tissue up one nostril, and when John sees him his eyes go wide. “What the _hell_ happened to you?”

 

“I may or may not have misjudged my distance from the wall,” Stiles says lightly.

 

It sounds like an obvious lie to Scott, who looks at John to see just how much trouble they are in.

 

But John has just cast his gaze heavenward and he’s shaking his head and maybe Stiles is accident-prone enough for this to be believable, but Scott still can’t let himself breathe just yet.

 

“It’s not broken, is it?” asks John, stepping closer to inspect the damage.

 

Now Stiles moves out of reach, hands up, placating. “Naw. My ugly mug will just be a little worse for the wear this week. It’ll give me street cred.  If anybody asks: you just say they should see the other guy.”

 

“You should put some ice on it,” says John.

 

Stiles still isn’t looking at Scott.

 

Stiles walks to open the freezer. John turns his attention to Scott. “You should watch after him when I’m not here. Otherwise, who knows what trouble he’ll stir up.”

 

Scott makes himself smile. John claps his shoulder, fatherly.

  
Scott feels genuinely sick. Dizzy and overheated, like he’s got the flu.

 

+++

 

Dinner feels like a fever-dream, and afterward Scott goes on a bike ride. He does his best to get lost, but he knows Beacon Hills too well.

 

Eventually it gets too late to justify it to his mom. So he comes home. Kills time in the kitchen, kills time in front of the TV with John and Melissa. They look cozy, only half paying attention to what’s on.

  
It makes something in his gut squirm. With guilt, maybe. He doesn’t know, he’s always been bad with words and he can’t _think_ right now. So he says goodnight, drops a kiss on his mom’s forehead, and makes his way to what he’s been avoiding.

 

Their room is dark when he opens the door. Stiles is in bed, curled up under the covers, turned towards the wall. Away from Scott.

  
He’s not asleep—he’s too quiet. Scott knows what he sounds like in his sleep now, knows what sleep looks like for Stiles.

 

He changes in the dark and sits on his bed. Doesn’t get under the covers. Doesn’t know how long he sits there like that.

 

He can’t bear this; it feels like his somebody scooped out his insides. He needs to talk to Stiles.

 

He stands up and crosses the space between their beds. He gets into Stiles’, under the covers. Facing Stiles but being very careful not to touch him.  

 

“I’m sorry,” Scott whispers, and he means it. For the nose. For everything. For a lot of somethings that he couldn’t name if he tried. “I’m sorry.”

 

He’s starting to think that Stiles is going to stay silent and strange to him forever, but then Stiles rolls over, eyes open and wary.

 

He’s breathing shakily, and out of instinct Scott reaches up to curve a calming hand on Stiles’ neck. Stiles just shuts his eyes tight, like it’s too much.

  
Scott presses his lips to Stiles’ cheek, softly. He can feel Stiles’ muscles jump under his hand, and he runs his thumb along Stiles’s jaw, soothing. Stiles reaches up to bunch his fingers in the front of  Scott’s shirt. Then Scott’s pressing light little kisses to his cheek, to his eyelids, avoiding the bruising. When he presses one to the corner of Stiles’ mouth, Stiles inhales sharply and parts his lips and starts kissing back.

 

Stiles tastes like their toothpaste, and it’s sloppy and wet and Stiles is maneuvering them so he’s on top, flush against Scott.

 

He’s heavy and the angle is entirely wrong but Scott is too relieved to care, hands raking along Stiles back, keeping him close.

 

+++

 

It doesn’t leave their room.

 

It’s like the horniest trial and error ever—figuring out their hands and how much teeth to use, how to be quiet when their parents (oh, god, _their_ parents) are down the hall, what kind of noises they make when they are alone and can afford to be loud.

 

Stiles learns how to makes Scott’s hips jump. He learns that Scott likes to be bitten, that the soft skin behind Scott’s knees is very, very ticklish, and that he shuts his eyes tight when he comes. 

 

And, okay, he’s a sixteen year old with an internet connection and a propensity for excess research. He’s looked up Other Stuff they could be doing. Anything that requires that kind of planning, anything that requires supplies would make this something that it’s not. Not yet. _Not ever_ , he tells himself, viciously.

 

Because otherwise they’d have to really think about what the fuck they’re doing.

 

But sometimes he thinks about it when they’re fucking around. Snatches of images and imagined sensations, what Scott would look like getting fucked. What Stiles would _feel_ like, getting fucked, stretched open. It’s too much, too much.

 

He can’t get it out of his head.  

 

+++

 

On a Wednesday in late September, Scott’s lab partner in biology, a pretty sandy-haired girl named Sadie, comes up to the passenger side of the Jeep when they’re piling in to go home.

 

“Um, hi,” she chirps.

 

Scott smiles, a little hesitant. “What’s up?”

 

“Um, I was wondering if you’d want to hang out on Friday.”

 

Stiles freezes, because he knows exactly what this is.

 

“…to study?” asks Scott, sweetly bewildered. Which makes Stiles angry at Scott for being the guy who is sweet and lost and makes girls like Sadie notice and like him.

 

Sadie puts a hand on her hip. “Like a _date_.” Spelling it out.

 

Scott’s eyes go wide.

  
“So, are you free?”

 

Stiles can’t say why he does it, but he says, “Yeah. He is.”

 

Scott’s dumbstruck, looking betrayed, but he swallows and smiles and nods.

 

Sadie lights up, hands Scott her number on a torn-out slip of notebook paper, and leaves.

 

Scott keeps trying to catch Stiles’ gaze to get an explanation but Stiles keeps his eyes on the road for the whole ride.

 

+++

 

The rest of the week is tense and they don’t talk or touch much. Stiles is unaccountably mad at Scott and at himself, because _he’s the one who did this_. He’s always had a talent for self-destruction.

 

And Scott’s loveable, a kind of loveable that sometimes pisses Stiles off. He’s easy to love, easy to want. And he’s ready to respond, ready to give himself away if only people noticed. And people are starting to notice.

 

When Stiles is feeling particularly vicious, he thinks that Scott only gave him the time of day because Stiles happened to be there.

 

When Friday evening rolls around, Stiles definitely does not stew in the house. He’s getting valuable time in, beating the next level of his video game. He definitely does not wait up for Scott. He just happens to be in the room, sitting on the bed and re-reading _Under the Red Hood_ for the second time when Scott comes back.

 

Scott doesn’t say anything. He changes into his pajamas and opens his computer.

 

“Well,” Stiles says, because he’s kept quiet for too long, “how’d it go?” He doesn’t look up from his comic, keeps his voice uninterested.

 

“It was alright,” says Scott.

 

“Just alright?”

 

Scott shrugs and sticks in his headphones. They spend the rest of the night in silence.

 

+++

 

The next Monday, Stiles is in the library at lunch, looking for a book he needs for his history paper. He’s muttering to himself and casting aspersions on the Dewey Decimal system when he hears voices from the next aisle over.

 

“So. How’d it go?”

 

“Ugh.”

 

“Ugh?”

 

“I don’t know. He’s kind of awkward. Too quiet, you know? I kept trying to start conversations and it was like he was somewhere else.”

 

And, oh. That’s _Sadie_.

 

The other girl makes a sympathetic noise.

 

“Really good kisser, though. Like. Surprising, right?” Sadie says, conspiratorially. Which earns an approving hum.

 

“Not worth it, though?”

 

“Nah.”

 

Stiles’ heart is pounding.

 

He finds Scott in the cafeteria and tells him they have to go, right now. Scott is confused as he drags him down two hallways to the boy’s locker room.

 

When Scott asks what he’s doing, he pushes Scott against the wall and drops to his knees. Scott makes a strangled noise, trying to protest that anybody could walk in, but Stiles just unzips his jeans and pulls him out and swallows him down.

 

When he comes, hot and bitter down Stiles’ throat, and Stiles stands up with a smirk and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, Scott’s looking at him with a hazy kind of awe. “Fuck. Stiles, _Fuck_.”

 

And that makes Stiles feel like he won something here.

 

It also makes him feel like maybe he won it by playing dirty.

 

They’re both late for class.

 

+++

 

It’s half past one in the morning on a school night when Scott is shaken awake. Violently.

 

“Scott. Scott. Scott. _Scott.”_

 

Stiles’ voice is hushed and frantic, and Scott opens his eyes. He means to ask ‘what’ but it comes out more of a garble. “Unnhh?”

 

“ _There’s a meteor shower_ ,” Stiles hisses, looking a bit manic.

 

Scott blinks once, then twice. Then he opens his eyes very, very wide.

 

“Like what killed the dinosaurs?” he asks.

 

“No, you asshole. Not asteroids. _Meteors._ ”

 

Scott doesn’t respond.

 

“Shooting stars,” explains Stiles.

 

With that, Scott’s sitting up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “…So you wanna go up to the roof and watch?”

 

Stiles is standing up, shaking his head. “Too many lights around here. Get your shoes. We’re taking the Jeep.”

 

They sneak out, with lots of _shhh_ -ing and stumbling in the dark. They drive and drive until there’s only rolling hills, trees, and sky that stretches on and on. It’s a cold and clear October night, inky black-blue with no moon. There’s nobody around for miles.

 

Scott yelps, because a slash of light just streaked across the sky. For less than a second, but he swears he saw it.

  
“God, they’re fast. You miss them if you blink,” says Scott, twisted around in his seat to try and get a better look out the window. “You can stop the car here.”

 

They hop out of the car and decide to sit on the hood. Knees tucked up, side by side.

 

Scott takes a moment to take in what the two of them look like. They are both the kind of mismatched that comes from dressing very quickly, in the dark of the night.

 

Scott laughs. He can’t help it. Stiles just grins, face turned up. He’s red-nosed and flushed from the cold.

 

It makes Scott want to kiss him, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to ruin this but he’s afraid that he will anyway. So they sit there and watch the lights streak the night sky, shoulder to shoulder.

 

They fall asleep after a while, and wake up to the sun rising.

 

They immediately panic, breaking several traffic laws and speed limits to get home by six thirty, only to find a very unamused John waiting for them at the kitchen table.

 

They’re both grounded for a very long time, but it’s worth it.

 

+++

 

Stiles’ mom died five Novembers ago and on the anniversary he and his father drive to see her side of the family in San Francisco.

 

Scott works double shifts with Deaton, coming home late. He figures he’s alone—Melissa must be at work.

 

He pushes open his bedroom door.

 

Except there is Stiles, sitting against wall, knees pulled up to his chest.

 

The sight of him makes Scott freeze. His breathing is frantic and shallow. His hand is slapped across his mouth, keeping himself quiet, squashing his features in a way that would be funny except that this isn’t funny at all. The corners of his eyes are wet.

 

“Stiles? _Stiles_?” Scott kneeling in front of him, not sure whether he should reach out.

 

“Leave me alone,” Stiles says, but he gets his hands fisted in Scott’s shirt, and tugs. So Scott gets his arms around him and Stiles mutters words he can’t make out, muffled and wet, into the crook of Scott’s neck.

 

+++

 

December sneaks up on them, Christmas following close behind.

 

Back when Scott's parents were splitting right down the seams, his mother was homesick.

 

That's the only word Scott could think of that touches the loneliness and longing she seemed to breathe out whenever she thought he wasn't looking. It weighed her down and she seemed to move slowly, full of a kind of sadness that scared Scott. He was caught between the desire to avoid the house when she was home and wanting to sit by her, squeeze her hand tight.

 

There was no home to return to, not exactly. Melissa's mom had died when she was in nursing school. She didn't have any sisters or brothers to call up, and her dad was never in the picture at all.

 

Melissa doesn't speak Spanish, even though she grew up around it, responding in impatient English to her mother's Spanish.

 

(And Scott? Scott almost failed Spanish in eighth grade, could never get his _r_ s to roll like they were supposed to, could never keep his conjugations straight. It was just another something lost between generations.)

 

Sometime during the divorce—winter, because Scott remembers wearing layers on top of layers and the house being too cold and quiet at night— Melissa started driving them an hour and fifteen minutes south to attend Spanish-language mass on Sundays. They'd never gone to church, except for the odd Easter or Christmas. Scott felt strange in a starchy white button-up and tie, like he couldn't breathe so well. He wasn't able to focus on the sermon because he couldn't understand the words, so he'd stare at the candles until his eyes blurred from concentrating so hard. He tried not to fidget. Well, he did his best, anyway. For his mother.

 

Melissa would sit and listen, really listen, hardly moving at all, just looking like she was waiting to hear something important and she had to follow along or she'd miss it.

 

She always seemed a little disappointed afterwards, extra quiet on the way back.

 

It didn't last. They only went for a handful of too-long Sundays.

 

Tonight, they’ve decided to go to a local Christmas service. Scott’s not paying attention to the words, not with Stiles next to him on the pew, pressed up against his side, knees to shoulders.

 

They pass around little white candles that had seen better days, wicks burnt black and short. Melissa and John are sitting a row in front of them, leaning into each other. Melissa’s haloed in the soft light, looking peaceful. Looking _happy_.

 

And suddenly Scott feels like he’s going to cry. He’s not sad; it’s just suddenly too much. His chest is too tight. The congregation stands up to sing Silent Night, but instead of singing Scott just grips his candle tight and keeps his mouth shut. When Stiles realizes Scott’s not singing, he stops warbling along quietly and nudges Scott with his elbow.

 

Scott looks at him.

  
Stiles nods, like he knows what Scott’s thinking.

 

+++

 

In February, they do start looking for houses, and by April they’ve bought a new house. Neutral territory.  
  
Stiles and Scott each get their own bedroom, and they’re not even next to each other.  They’re separated by a bathroom and a hall closet.

 

It should be a relief, but when Stiles sits down on his newly re-assembled bed, it just feels too quiet.

 

+++

 

Three nights later, Scott and Stiles have barely spoken.

 

Stiles’ door is cracked. He has music playing, not too loud. They’ve all learned how to share space a little more politely.

 

Scott pushes it open slowly, carefully. Stiles is half-lying on his bed, head propped against the wall, sorting through old school papers. They’re all finding boxes of things that they need to sort through, to decide what’s worth keeping anymore.

 

“Hey,” Stiles says, looking up, and that seems like invitation enough.

 

Scott steps in and closes the door quietly behind him. He leans back on it for a moment.

 

Stiles goes back to his papers, but Scott knows Stiles is just waiting to see what he’s going to do. So Scott sits down at the foot of the bed, leaving space between them. Not too close.

 

“Weird, huh?” he asks before the silence can get strange. “This whole… everything.”

 

Stiles looks up and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, what am I going to do without your snoring to lull me to sleep?” He prods Scott’s side with his foot, but before he can pull away, Scott catches his ankle in his hand.

 

Stiles stills, and suddenly the room feels much, much smaller than it did before. Scott doesn’t know why he did it but he’s not letting go. His heart has kicked up and. God. He just needs to know what’s going to happen.

 

Stiles is looking right at him when he says, “This is fucked up, right?”

 

Scott swallows around the lump in his throat, and nods. Then Stiles is sitting up, scooting forward on the bed, close enough that he catch the front of Scott’s shirt to haul him closer. They both lose balance: Scott drops his hold on Stiles’ ankle to catch himself as Stiles falls back on the bed, crushing the papers beneath him.

 

Scott’s arms are bracketing Stiles, and for a moment neither of them do anything except catch their breath.

 

But then Stiles is sliding his hands up Scott’s sides, pushing his shirt up and that’s it, Scott’s kissing him and Stiles kisses back, wet and open-mouthed, spreading his legs like this is easy.

 

And for now, maybe it is. 


End file.
